


What's The Point?

by Blue_Finch



Series: For Better or Worse [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Finch/pseuds/Blue_Finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Devil's Share maybe some minor spoilers for Lethe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's The Point?

**Author's Note:**

> thanks again to menagerie and TimelessDreamer2 for being my betas
> 
> And of course only my words belong to me

John wrestled the keys from Detective Fusco’s hands as he leg-scissored the burly man over onto his back. In one swift movement, Reese was straddling him, pinning Lionel’s arms to the pavement.

John angrily huffed out, “You tell Finch, I’m sorry. I just can’t keep helping people I don’t know, when I couldn’t even save a friend. Now I’m going to let you up; this is over Fusco. I’m leaving. Don’t follow me!”

Feeling that the fight had gone out of the detective, John staggered to his feet. Reese turned and walked away, as Lionel sat up to watch him go.

“You weren’t the only one to lose a friend, John.” Fusco shouted at Reese’s retreating back, “This is not what Carter would have wanted.” Lionel sat there breathing heavily, as the rain continued to fall, watching Reese get on his motorcycle and start it up. He had tried.

Reese pulled the bike to a stop in front of the now standing, Lionel Fusco. He lifted the visor of the raindrop dotted helmet. “This is something I have to do, Lionel. I-I can’t be there and watch anyone else I care for die because I couldn’t do anything to stop it. Finch...watch out for him…for me, please?”

“Yeah sure, John. I think Glasses needs you more than me, but I’ll take care of the Little Guy,  _until you come back. **You are coming back**!”_

“I can’t promise anything. Tell Harold, I meant everything I said. He’ll know what I mean. I just can’t…I just can’t do the job anymore.” With those parting words, John pulled down the visor and sped off into the night, Fusco sadly watching him go.

        ~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~

Reese rode for hours leaving NYC behind him. No matter how fast or how far John sped along, he couldn’t outrun the memories. Not of Carter bleeding out in his arms; not the irrational anger he had felt coming to in that room at the safehouse; the need to get vengeance, to kill, the dark hole swallowing him again; Harold’s plea to let them help, to let Quinn live, let Carter’s death not be in vain; the killer still inside him pulling that trigger.

Most of all he couldn’t shake the abject feeling of failure at not killing Quinn, either because the good inside him wouldn’t let him or because the killer had still tried.

Reese kept going on auto-pilot, his thoughts filled of with images of blood, death, and how things had gone so wrong. Everything that had made him human again was gone.

John could have kept going indefinitely, running, forever running, but fuel and his Ducati could not. He was somewhere just inside of Kentucky when he finally stopped to gas up the bike. Reese stopped at a mini-mart with a fuel island somewhere on the outskirts of Catlettsburg.

Mindful of the few security cameras he knew were trained on the fuel pumps, Reese kept his face hidden. He knew what would be watching and didn’t care, John just didn’t want the FBI or CIA to maybe spot any footage of The-Man-in-Suit alive and well. He really didn’t want to have to outrun his demons and the CIA or FBI or both.

It wasn’t that Reese cared if the CIA or whoever caught up to him and threw him in some deep dark pit, tortured him until all remnants of anything resembling a human were gone, he deserved that.

It was just that if they knew John had left Finch, they wouldn’t come after  _him_ , they’d go after Harold. Shaw was good, Root had The Machine, but they couldn’t be around Finch twenty-four hours a day. They would wait, grab Harold before The Machine could warn them, before Shaw or Root could act. Finch would be the one in that black hole of no return, with things done to him until nothing left of Harold Finch would be recognizable. Harold would never give in to them.

No matter how worthless Reese considered himself, how useless, Finch shouldn’t have to pay for John’s mistakes. The mission, at least John’s side of things was pointless. If John were worth a damn as an operative then Carter, hell Szymanski and evenDonnelly would still be alive.  Reese figured some good people might slip through the cracks between what The Machine could tell them and what The Machine knew. That gap in information should have been where Reese came in. John was supposed to be there watching the gulf, ready to catch those who might fall into it. Instead, John let Carter slip through his fingers. If Reese couldn’t be trusted to save Carter, his best friend, how in the world could he be there when Harold might…

Reese shook his head refusing to even fathom the thought of Harold’s death because John wasn’t there to stop it from happening. It was obvious from the rooftop incident on and now with Carter’s death that John was incapable of keeping Finch safe. If Reese couldn’t protect him then Harold might one day fall. As strong as Reese was physically, emotionally, he was unable to think of this world without Harold Finch in it.

The auto shut-off of the fuel nozzle snapped Reese from his abstraction. After topping off the cycle’s tank and replacing the nozzle back in its base on the side of the fuel pump, John pulled his jacket’s collar higher up his neck and put on a pair of sunglasses that were large enough to cover most of his face. John walked the fifty feet or so to the mart’s entrance, his face looking at the pavement the whole way.

John waited patiently for the two customers ahead of him to pay for their purchases while studiously looking at something behind the glass walls of the counter. John was conscious of his efforts to not be recognized in surveillance footage obviously being taken by the small camera cleverly hidden amid flashing neon beer signs and the cigarette rack on the wall behind the cashier.

When it was his turn, John opened his wallet to pay for his fuel purchase at first reaching in for two twenties, then changing his mind, used the credit card in John Ryan’s name. It was the latest and cleanest of John’s aliases. Only Finch knew of it. While John was positive Finch was tracking the credit card’s usage, he knew Harold wouldn’t try to send Shaw or Fusco or any of the hired muscle he knew Harold still kept on his payroll to follow him. John’s location didn’t matter; he would be gone before anyone could get here; he was just letting Finch know he was here. John knew no matter what was happening between them, regardless, Harold would worry himself sick not knowing even if John were alive still.

Walking back to where his motorcycle waited at the fuel isle, Reese realized how bone tired he was feeling. There was a no-tell motel down the access road, where Reese rented a room for the night, this time using cash. No need to let Finch know John was hanging around the small burg any longer than was necessary.

Reese showered just long enough to cleanse his body of road dust from riding a motorcycle hundreds of miles and some dried mud still clinging to his body from his fight with Fusco. He dried himself off and crawled between the sheets, not even bothering to dress in anything more than clean boxer briefs.

Reese was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. It was not a restful sleep though; he woke an hour later drenched in sweat and crying out for Harold. His nightmare was of holding a dying Carter. As she looked up at Reese to gasp out her last words, the body in John’s arms transformed to the sturdier form of Harold Finch. Carter's last plea to not let her death change him had now been spoken by Harold...at his death.

John had promised himself a long time ago to never crawl back into a bottle, but things had changed since then. Carter’s gentle nagging and Finch’s unshakable faith in John were gone now. The nightmares and that feeling of loss and hopelessness had John reaching for the bottle of Jack stuffed among his clothes in the bike’s saddle bags.

With every pull of the bottle in his hand, John relived going after Quinn, Harold’s gentle plea for Reese to not kill the head of HR yet John pulling the trigger anyways, then waking up again in that hospital bed with the haze of a morphine drip gone. Finch was still there by John’s side but things between them had changed. There was hurt, distrust, and…fear in Harold’s eyes before the shutters came down in the form of a half-smile and closed off face.

Reese remembered Harold taking him to visit Carter’s grave when he was well enough to leave the makeshift hospital room. The guilt he’d already been feeling intensified, twisting its blade in his gut, the knifing pain real. Not only had John not prevented her death, but Reese’s own need for vengeance made him miss the funeral. Carter had asked John in one of her last dying breaths to look out for Taylor and Reese couldn’t even be there at the boy’s darkest hour.

John looked over near the car to see Finch waiting there. Harold looked sick, gaunt, and pale. The older man looked like he was about to pass out from emotional exhaustion. John was no use to anyone. Not Carter, not Shaw, and not Finch, who was hurting because of Reese.

That was when John decided to leave. Finch had made a plea for John to stay, but it was only half-hearted. Finch was in pain because of Reese’s actions in the morgue, John had let his emotions get carried away. John had only told Carter those things, had chastely kissed her to give her something to hold on to when Reese thought he was the one going to die. But Harold didn’t know that. John never had the chance to explain.

Finch was also afraid of John now. Finch had only seen the files describing Reese’s actions as a former operative on CIA missions, but he’d never witnessed the cold mindless killing machine the CIA had made Reese into in the flesh.

When the alcohol at last pulled him into its mind numbing oblivion, John’s last thought was—there was  _no point_  anymore. No matter how many numbers they had saved or lost; how many perpetrators they had stopped; John would always fail the people that meant the most.  _I’m sorry, Harold_  the last words he mumbled as John passed out, empty bottle falling to the floor.

 ~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~

A persistent and increasingly loud hard banging at the motel room’s door roused Reese from his drunken stupor. He yelled to whomever it was he’d be right there, at which the banging stopped and John pulled on the pair of clean blue jeans he had tossed in the chair the night.. _.the night before?_ Checking the time on the watch he had tossed on the nightstand while undressing to shower, it was now 1:30 Wednesday afternoon...he’d rented the room Monday night.

So John was not surprised to find a slightly angry and concerned motel desk clerk staring up at him when Reese answered the door. John promised the man he’d be down to the office as soon as he was dressed to settle for the night before and pay for tonight as checkout time was three hours ago. Before the man turned and walked away he handed John a thick manila envelope apologizing; he'd almost forgotten to give it to John and said a courier had delivered it to the office an hour ago.

Thirty minutes later, motel bill paid and a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, courtesy of a now satisfied motel desk clerk/manager, cooling on the nightstand, John had planned on sobering up, aided by the thick bitter brew and taking off not planning on spending another night regardless that the room was now paid for. At least the pounding now echoing in his head, instead of at the door, was doing its best to drown the voices of Carter, of Fusco, of Shaw or Root, and of course, Harold.

Reese was stuffing dirty clothing back into the saddle bags he’d carried in two days ago when the almost forgotten envelope caught John’s eye, laying amongst the ruffled bed linens where he had tossed it earlier.

Curiosity getting the better of him he picked up the envelope. On the outside was a printed label...John Ryan, ℅ Blue Hills Motel, Catlettsburg, KY. How did Finch know John was at the mote? He’d paid cash for the room; there were no security cameras anywhere around the place.

When glancing at the top printout, he was sure this was Harold’s handiwork.

**Teresa Whitaker XXX-XX-XXXX**

Graduated:  xxxxxx High School May 2012, current status, student, pre-med, predictability of success 99%

**Samuel Gates XXX-XX-XXXX**

December 2013, current status  Judge, New York District Court, violent criminals incarcerated 98%, continued probability of success 100% 

**Samuel Gates Jr XXX-XX-XXXX**

Current Status,  student xxxxxx Middle School Future Unknown probability of success 78%

**Andrea Gutierrez XXX-XX-XXXX**

current status, defense lawyer, defending innocent arrestees accused of crimes probability of success 95% future probability of success 99%.

 

Page after page, John read them. Numbers they had saved, hundreds of them, where and what they were now. Some of them had become failures in life after having been given a second chance, but the majority had a far-reaching impact on those around them. All these seemingly irrelevant individuals were relevant to so many around them. Looking at Meg Tillman’s page and also Madeline Enright’s, there were names listed—lives they had saved as physicians. Under those names, were listed countless individuals, from every walk of life, all of them imperative to the continued existence of those around them. Each name with more names attached to it.

John’s decision to leave the mission behind was faltering; he just couldn’t ignore all the good they had done so far. Then the memory of Carter dying in his arms and the nightmare of Finch bleeding out in his dream instead hardened again Reese’s resolution to walk away from it all.

 _Nice try Finch, though why you bothered with the way you feel about me now._ _.._ were the words running through Reese’s head as he stuffed the print outs back into the envelope.

One of the ones John hadn’t read, towards the bottom of the stack caught his eye though. It had Carter’s name and number printed out. Her status was deceased. John felt the knife in his gut twisting again.  John was about to crumple up the paper, throw it away like he’d caused her life to be thrown away, when he saw more names, countless names. People whose names he didn’t recognize and those he did—Fusco’s, his. At the bottom of the last page were the words Carter had said to him in the morgue, ‘When your time is up, it’s up.’ Below it… a number was listed, one John remembered seeing before and alongside it was a high-lighted note, ‘It’s not his time.’

John reread all the names of people whose lives had been changed or saved by Carter since John had saved her in that alley years ago. There the number was—Carter had saved this person once.

There was another printout attached to Carter’s page and a recent surveillance photo of the face belonging to the name and number of the person once saved by Carter. Reese didn’t recognize the name, but he did the face. It was Harold. Harold Finch being watched not only by Hersh, but John spotted another man in the photo watching Finch too. And where the  _ **hell**  _was Shaw?

Reese knew he might already be too late. As much as he feared failing Finch yet again, he could not at least try. Throwing what was left of the papers in the envelope; he put it and the rest of his belongings in the bag. John then rushed out the door, not even closing it behind him.

John was surprised he wasn’t stopped by any patrolmen on his way back to New York, speeding along and pushing the Ducati to its limits. It seemed like forever, but he’d made it back in record time.

This first place he went upon returning to the city was The Library. After running up the stairs, he skidded to a halt. Samantha Groves was sitting at Finch’s computers and a usually stoic Shaw was standing beside her. The two startled woman just stared at him, when John demanded to know what the hell was going on and where Finch was.

Shaw was the first to find her voice and told John they had Harold, but which they she couldn’t say or where Finch even was. Groves just started mumbling that  _She_  couldn’t help. The Machine wouldn’t help  _them_ , but it would help  _him._ He’d done this dance before when Root had kidnapped Finch the first time.

A stunned Root got up from the chair, handed John her earpiece, and told John  _She_  wanted to speak to him. John listened to the garbled mechanical voices telling him Finch’s location and how many men were holding Finch captive.

Going to his arsenal of guns cached in the Library, he armored up and headed for the stairs. Looking back over his shoulder, he asked if they were coming or not. Five minutes later, they were in Finch’s car heading for a warehouse three miles away.

John stopped the car three blocks away. Between him and Shaw, they took out the men guarding the place. Root following John’ instructions to back them up. Outside the warehouse doors Reese told them to wait; he needed to do this alone. He had to be the only one to go in; if anything went wrong Reese knew that Shaw would carry on with the mission with Root as The Machine’s new voice. John accepted it, although liking it or understanding it he did not.

Reese followed the voices in his ear...one o'clock...nine o'clock....6 o’clock until there were no more men left and he silently opened the door to the office, taking the lone guard inside down before he even knew what hit him.

Finch didn’t move at all, not reacting to the noise around him. John’s heart leapt to his throat.  _No, I can’t be too late..._  a voice screamed inside his head. John put his fingers on Finch’s throat, feeling for a pulse. It was there, weak and thready, but it was there. They had worked Finch over good; bruises covered his face and his eyes were swollen shut.

Finch barely raised his head when he felt John’s fingers brush against his throat. “John? You came for me?” was all he barely whispered.

“I always will. Let’s get you out of here.”

~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~

Several days later, it was John sitting at Harold’s bedside this time. Dr. Madani said Harold had broken ribs, fractured cheekbones, major contusions, and a mild concussion.

The bones in his fingers and hands had been broken and were now covered in casts. While whoever had done this wanted Finch to feel unending pain, none of the injuries they had inflicted upon Finch had been life threatening.

Reese blamed himself for what happened, if he had been here… John closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Harold’s chest.

“John?” Harold slurred still heavily sedated. “Please don’t leave me again,” he murmured thickly before falling back to sleep.

John promised, “I won’t. I love you.” Reese moved his head to lie over Finch’s steadily beating heart; the thrum-thrum in his ear chased the demons away and John slept too.

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback IS love


End file.
